Paul Harker must have told her, of course: told her that he’d been losing heavily, and she was sorry for him. Even to a millionaire like Harker five thousand pounds on a single hand of poker would seem fairly heavy; and to him—— He gave a mirthless little laugh, which called forth an instant rebuke from the Professor. "Perfect silence, please." Billy Merton lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. His brain was racing with the feverish activity of a worried man. If it had been anything else—anything but a gambling debt. Thank God! his father was dead, and would never know the disgrace of it; but there were quite a number of relations. They’d soon find out; things of that sort can’t be kept dark. What a fool, what a damnable fool he’d been! And it was at that moment that there came a soft bump on the floor, and he heard the woman in the next chair to him draw in her breath sharply. For a while he stared rigidly into the darkness; then, with a slight frown, he let his body relax. He was in no mood for entertainments of this type: he wished now that he hadn’t come. And yet it had been very decent of Harker suggesting it—very decent. Was there a possibility, he wondered—if he made a clean breast of the whole thing to his host—was there a possibility of his lending four thousand? It seemed the only hope, the bare chance of salvation. He’d ask him after this cursed séance was over. The worst that could happen would be a refusal. And supposing he didn’t refuse? Supposing—— Billy drew in a deep breath at the mere thought. Thump! thump! Perfectly clear and audible the sounds came from the centre of the room, bringing him back to the present, and he felt the back of his scalp begin to tingle. Of course, it was a trick; and yet he didn’t somehow associate the Professor with a vulgar fraud. He had struck him as a well-meaning, conscientious man, who was badly in need of exercise and an outdoor life. Probably dyspeptic. And if so—if it wasn’t a trick—what was it that was now dragging itself about? "Like a sack of potatoes." Iris Sala’s words came back to him as he sat there motionless. Suddenly he heard the Professor’s voice, trembling a little with excitement: "Who are you! Speak!" The noise ceased at once; only a long-drawn shuddering sigh came out of the darkness. Then after a minute or two the uncanny dragging noise commenced again: bump—slither—bump. He tried to locate it, but it seemed everywhere. At one moment it was close by, at another it sounded as if it was at the other side of the room. It was devilish, it was horrible. He put a hand to his forehead; it was wet with sweat. He felt an insane desire to get up from his chair and rush from the room: the only trouble was that he had forgotten the exact location of the door. Besides, he might bump into the Thing on the way.